


The Hunter in White

by Quillpaw



Category: Assassin's Creed, Left 4 Dead
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillpaw/pseuds/Quillpaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond and his group are on the run- from zombies, from the military, and from their pasts. They meet up with Malik Al-Sayf, who is running for the very same reasons. Unfortunately, his past is running after him, in the form of a pacifist Hunter in a stained white hood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunter in White

Desmond woke with one hand clutching his gun. He pushed himself up off the frayed sleeping mat, briefly checking the weapon over. The others were beginning to stir and fumble for their own weapons, but he was already getting to his feet, moving to the entrance to the safehouse. Outside, something was alternating between pounding on the door and fumbling with its handle. Desmond took a steadying breath, and flicked the off the safety. In one swift motion he lifted the bar across the door, flung it open, and pointed the gun at the figure standing outside.

"Don't shoot!" A hand went up defensively, but Desmond knew better than to lower his weapon. The man's dark eyes were locked on the gun barrel, currently pointed at his chest.

"Who the hell are you?" Desmond asked, his voice sharp but steady. The man in front of him looked about his own age, with short dark hair and skin that particular shade of brown that people gave distrusting looks to. He wore a black hooded jacket, jeans, and dark boots. The left sleeve of the jacket was pinned in place, as there was no arm to fill it. In another time, that might have been what gave Desmond pause; instead, his gaze lingered on the pistol tucked in the red sash around the man's waist.

"My name is Malik Al-Sayf," the man said, briefly glancing from Desmond's gun to his face. The words and name rolled across his tongue in a way that would earn the distrusting looks his skin had missed. "I'm not infected," he said, obviously hoping that would get Desmond to put his weapon down. "I need shelter."

"I'm supposed to just take your word on that?" Desmond said, very pointedly _not_ lowering his gun. Trust was not something easily given these days; they had all learned about that the hard way.

Malik's nostrils flared, and for a brief second Desmond saw fire in his eyes, a surge of pride and pain that was quickly reined in again, though not well. He gestured to his missing limb, his voice coming out in an agitated hiss. "Is this not proof enough for you?!" he demanded. "Have I not given up enough to prove I am clean?"

Slowly, carefully, Desmond finally let his gun fall to his side. There was something in the man's words, in his tone; he had lost much more than just his arm. He was like them. "Get inside," he said, his voice low. He ushered Malik inside, quickly shutting and latching the door behind them. He had no idea where the horde was, if they were on the move. He didn't want to know just yet.

The others were all awake now, and were looking to Malik with varying degrees of confusion, wariness, and open hostility. "Desmond, who is this?" He was quietly thankful that Lucy was the one who had asked first. He doubted Shaun would have worded the question quite the same way.

"This is—" But Malik intercepted him, obviously intending to speak for himself.

"I am Malik Al-Sayf. I'm not infected, or a carrier. I simply need shelter for a short while." He brought his hand to his chest and bent just slightly at the waist, a polite gesture. "Thank you for your hospitality. I will not impose long."

His humility seemed to satiate the others, and they all settled back down again. Desmond offered him a smile, trying to show that he was not all threats and cold accusations. "Don't sweat it, man. It's just nice seeing someone who's not a slavering monster once in a while. I'm Desmond, that's Shaun, Lucy, and Rebecca." He gestured to each of them in turn, and they offered a polite nod, a smile, and a brief glance away from a weapon, respectively. Desmond saw Malik's eyes drawn to Rebecca's gun, a customized M16 she had affectionately dubbed "Baby". He wondered if he was admiring the impressive model, or the ostentatious white and red accents along the gun. "Well, make yourself at home," Desmond grunted, settling down on his own sleeping mat to see to his own gun. He made no apologies for pointing it at Malik, and the man didn't seem to require any. It was simply the times they lived in now.

"I don't suppose you saw a horde out there, did you?" Shaun asked, addressing Malik stiffly. "Anything showing interest in our location?"

"No. Everything is quiet out there. This is a very secure location," Malik noted, sitting down and leaning against the wall. "There were a few infected gathered around an abandoned house about two hundred yards from here, but they didn't see me."

"Yeah, they've been camping out there about as long as we've been here," Rebecca noted without taking her attention away from Baby's innards. "Hell if I know why, there's no one in there."

That was the only meaningful conversation any of them had with Malik that day. They went about their day in silence, cleaning weapons, checking food stores, and laying around contemplating the apocalypse occurring outside their front door. Malik was not _bad_ company by any means, but he had an air to him that made starting conversation difficult. He rarely gave more than a monosyllabic response, and spoke with careful politeness when those did not suffice. By the end of the day the only things Desmond knew about the man were his name and that everything else about him was "not worth discussing". After a point, he just gave up entirely, leaving the man to his own devices.

-x-

Desmond still wasn't used to night coming so quietly. The sound of infected fists pounding on doors and walls had become an inescapable part of his life, not comforting but darkly familiar, and for some ridiculous reason, the absence worried him. A little irrational voice in the back of his mind suggested that the zombies could be planning something, which he immediately dismissed as ludicrous. Zombies weren't capable of planning—their brain matter was too busy rotting out to formulate plans. But they were out there, still within easy walking distance, lurking, waiting. He was prepping himself for his shift, when Malik moved past him.

"I'll take first watch."

Desmond blinked after him, unable to get out even a confused noise before the man was out of the safehouse. "Uh?" he managed intelligently, earning a snort from Shaun.

"I think it's his way of repaying our hospitality," Lucy said, smiling slightly. "Just let him go. You can relieve him in a few hours." She laid down on her mat, carefully tucking her pistols under her pillow. Desmond laid back himself, reluctantly closing his eyes.

He couldn't even remember falling asleep when he was woken by the sound of gunfire. His body was up and moving for the door before he could even process his surroundings, flicking the safety off his gun. "Malik?!" He shouldered the door open, and froze, not quite sure what he was seeing.

Malik was standing with his pistol drawn, pointed at the ground and decidedly _not_ at the zombie crouched a few yards away. The man seemed to have fired a warning shot, missing the zombie by a few feet, like he intended to chase it off rather than kill it. The zombie wasn't moving, though. It was crouched low, its head tilted back slightly to look up at Malik from beneath a white hood. Desmond had seen its kind before.

"Shit, Hunter! Malik, get back!" Desmond hefted his shotgun, aiming for the infected. Its head snapped towards him, and it let out a ragged snarl. It tensed up, obviously preparing to pounce, and Desmond fired.

"No!" A hand latched onto his wrist, throwing off his aim. His shot went wild, though the Hunter let out a yelp of displeasure as a fragment of buckshot clipped its side. That was enough to bring it out of its pounce, and it clutched clumsily at the injury with a few raspy noises of displeasure. Malik twisted Desmond's gun from his hands, glaring at him. "Don't shoot it. I'll take care of this." Desmond started to protest, but he was shoved unceremoniously back inside the safehouse, and the door was slammed in his face.

Desmond peered out through the bars of the door, watching as Malik turned to the Hunter and...started to _talk_ to it? "What the _fuck_..."

Malik was speaking to the Hunter in Arabic, his voice low but unmistakably furious. He kept gesturing to the Hunter with his gun, but never once fired on it. Even stranger, the Hunter seemed to be _listening_ to him, its head slightly cocked. From what Desmond could make out beneath its hood, it looked confused, perhaps slightly disappointed. The one-sided conversation did not last long, and Malik gave one sharp, final word, and fired at the Hunter's feet. It leapt back, growled softly, and fled, vanishing over the hills.

Desmond quickly scrambled away from the door as Malik flung it open, already moving over to the sleeping mat that had been set aside for him. "You can take next watch," was all he said to Desmond. He immediately laid down on his mat, keeping his hand on his pistol. There was no room for discussion, and Desmond did not particularly care to attempt it. He sighed, shouldered his shotgun, and slipped outside, preparing to wait out the few hours until he could rouse Shaun.

The Hunter in the white hood did not return that night.


End file.
